


Footnote

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [9]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: It is no surprise that Jack is a rather excellent kisser; she’d certainly conjured up the memory of an airfield enough times to predict that. What Phyne had not foreseen, however, was that a brief stop in her parlour would lead to him pressing her against the arm of the chaise, one hand cradling her head and the other resting on her hip, to start a kissing session the likes of which she hasn’t had since she discovered the pleasures of intercourse.A PFF extra, since general consensus was that my March one didn't count. ;-P





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, after being roundly informed that angst doesn't count for PFF (which, btw, it totally does, but I'm feeling generous), I figured I'd post this as a Friday bonus. Well that and because it kept mocking me from the draft folder. It was meant to bemore sentimental, but endeed up at pure smuttiness. I'm sure nobody will complain. ;-P

It is no surprise that Jack is a rather excellent kisser; she’d certainly conjured up the memory of an airfield enough times to predict _that_. What Phyne had not foreseen, however, was that a brief stop in her parlour would lead to him pressing her against the arm of the chaise, one hand cradling her head and the other resting on her hip, to start a kissing session the likes of which she hasn’t had since she discovered the pleasures of intercourse. But this… this is playful and delightful and enough by itself; the eventual migration to the boudoir is not really her consideration, at least for the time being.

So when his hand slips beneath her skirt, the whole of his palm cupping her sex with just the right amount of pressure, she gasps against his mouth.

“Christ, Phryne,” he groans in response, stroking his hand upward, the silk of Phryne’s knickers exquisite against her flesh. “I’ll be on my deathbed and no more than a footnote in your history and that sound is going to be the last damned thing I think about.”

And her brain is trying to process the thought and the sensations at the same time, and what comes out is a strangled whimper as she arches towards him, hand scrambling against his shoulders. It’s everything but what she really needs--she’s surrounded by him without being joined, the press between her legs so familiar but she wants him inside or focused or god anything but this promise of pleasure that leaves orgasm just out of reach--and she reaches down to cup his cock through his trousers just to hear him moan.

“It will be the last thing you think of because I’ll be making it,” she pants, her mouth ahead of her mind and making promises she wants to keep, and then he’s moving his hand again and she forgets she’s ever said it, especially when his head drops to kiss her neck and her fingers tangle in his hair and this time it is not his palm but one long finger tracing the lips of her cunt and the change makes her keen, pulsing her hips and ready to beg.

She doesn’t need to; he’s kissing her again and pushing the edge of the knickers aside so he can touch her properly and she can’t figure how they went from a nice snog to every part of her sparking and wanting and needing him, his touch, his scent, the way their kisses have become little more than nudges of their noses as they both pant desperately for each other, but she doesn’t really care so long as he just--oh! His finger swirls against her clit before pressing inside and he gets her on the precipice with an ease and speed that would be almost galling if it wasn’t so fucking good, and when he pauses she has this obscene idea that he’s doing this to torture her, but he’s just adjusting his hand to go deeper, harder, to hit that spot inside of her that makes her clench and scream and sob with the intensity of her climax.

When the long moment passes, she realises that she is still leaning against the chaise arm, one of his hands still at the back of her head and the other now resting on her thigh, and she laughs softly.

“What?” he asks, a tiny smirk lurking in the corners of his downturned mouth.

His eyes are so clear, so blue, his eyelashes golden in the lamp light; she strokes his face softly, thinks of all the things she’s not yet ready to say but knows he knows anyway. When she speaks, her voice is quiet and full of emotion, and her lips brush the shell of his ear.

“That was a hell of a footnote, inspector.”


End file.
